The day had finally come.

Swifts and creams of colors, breezes and chains of music fall into the small chamber situated in an ancient school.

Silks of tears and erupts of cries blade through the air in the crowded, pitiless room.

"May we never forget him, the one who fought."

In a reply to the old man, an eighteen year old young man standing silently in a dark corner switched his gaze away, far away from the black, neat coffin-shaped box in the middle of the small chamber. He could not and would not seek the last vision of the man lying inside. He would not.

Lines of wizards and witches holding black roses placed their gift of sadness and honor into the wooden box. A particular brown haired woman broke down so hardily that a tall, thin and flamed haired man drifted her away quietly in his arms.

He was still rooted on the corner. He. Would. Not. Move.

An old witch, so old but wise, patted him on the shoulder and too, glided away silently, so motionlessly that he was so certain for one moment this was a dream. Just a dream. A realistic dream.

"Harry, the ceremony is about to be finished. Do you wish to see him lastly?"

Or maybe not.

He made no answer, for words failed him greatly as he dare not bring his head up to meet the eyes of the old wizard by his side. For he would never forgive himself. For he was the reason. The reason everyone was huddled together in this room, dazzled with sparks and glints in their eyes.

For his existence denied the man's.

The man had fought for him and not for his own self's freedom if he succeed. Victory belonged to injustice, as to see the world, the life, the nature, the humane, the intelligence, and the heavens, the devils, showed no fairness.

And there was no reason they should when the final battle took its place between love and death.

He chose love. In a return of death.

A rush of the creaking wood notified him the closing of the coffin. The old man beside him was gently exhaling. The crowd thinned as they stepped out into the silks of nature.

"Wait."

The old man looked up.

The young man looked down.

Hair, as black as ever, long to the chin; face, as pale as ever, mild as the wind; lips, as dry as ever, color of the cheek; shoulders, as bind as ever, square with the grief; arms, as built as ever, laid on the left rights; legs, as grace as ever, placed with its pride; and body, as relaxed and tender as ever, grazed in the feathering light.

He looked.

And smiled.

May the war come to a tragic end, but let our souls open to the new finds.

He threw his rose into the box. He knew this was not yet the end.

But he also knew, as the dazzling and spectacular white flow down onto the man- he would stand, he would create the chance, and everything would mend.